Forged Confessions

Shiny pages lit up in the dark. Frivolous lanterns drawn in tinsel sparks. The real is what you tell yourself. And what you believe of them. The pitchfork scours the grain from the heart. Bundles it up and feeds it back into the farm.

Life.

There in that lucid dream. Orchestrating every high. And low. Veins pumping paper. Eyes spitting ink. The alarm went off. The blankets sprinted from my legs. Just as I was about to prove to myself what part of it had been real.

I imagined him there touching me as I touched myself. The hush of a stranger's fingernails on taffy skin. Pulling it so taut.

But it doesn't break.

Betrayed again by my compassion.